


B-L-E-A-C-H-E-R-S

by PeachBriseadh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, BroJohn - Freeform, Embarrassment, Exhibitionism, Football Games, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, gratuitous junk food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 18:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20178415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh
Summary: Bro and John go to a football game, for some reason.





	B-L-E-A-C-H-E-R-S

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/gifts).

He doesn’t tell you what he’s got planned, not exactly, but  _ you know _ . You know he’s got some bizzaro kinky shenanigans planned when he asks you to wear Those Jeans. The one’s he says  _ make your ass look aerodynamic with how they lift those sculpted buns _ (his words) to a college football game.

Yeah, you know some sexy mischief is afoot, but Bro hasn’t exactly been up front with it. He has, though, been particularly behind. As in, right now he’s behind you in line for tickets to said college football game, sneaking everything from pinches to five fingered handfuls of your ass. 

Why, you ask? WHY? 

You don’t know.

It’s not like he even went here! Or any college! You did, yeah, but you graduated from these hallowed halls like, four years ago, back when you first started uh. Flirting. Courting? When you first hooked up with Bro and started your now long term relationship or whatever. You’re the only reason he even knows this facility exists.

Anyways, you buy your tickets. 

The two of you decided that you will buy the tickets and he’ll foot the bill for snacks. Bro even brought a little blanket and those cushions for bleachers so they keep your butt from going numb. You have no idea why he owned them previously, and honestly that’s one of your first big suspicions that the guy planned this a long time ago. 

Getting to the moment at hand.

Bro, standing next to you with his stupid cushions and a twinkle in his eyes. Not that you can see his eyes from the shades, but you know he’s twinkling. The fucker. The line isn’t terribly long, since you’re sort of way early for kickoff. Bro keeps muttering into your ear, pointing out all the awful details of the people around you until you’re giggling and begging for him to stop, batting him away. 

“You ready for three plus hours of excessively homoerotic ballplay?” He asks as you step closer to the big open concession stand window with the slidey letter menu. You roll your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. 

“Sure am, can’t wait to watch a bunch of huge men smash against one another on 2 cm for a ball that’s not remotely ball shaped.”

“Yeah same.” He says, stepping up to place your order. Before you even read the menu, Bro opens his mouth and just... Doesn’t stop. He just keeps going in that toneless, Texan accent you hate to love.

“Can I get two hotdogs with the fixin’s, don’t skimp on the load kiddo, two boxes of popcorn, and make sure it’s smothered and covered Waffle House style none of the ‘two squirts or three’ mamsy pamsy butter bullshit, four ring pops, a box of M&M’s, original NO peanuts very important, one giant pretzel with nacho cheese, extra salt, hold the peps, and two large, fuckoff freezies, one blue, the other orange.”

At some point around ‘mamsy pamsy’ your mouth fell open and really never shut. The kid at the counter looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. Bro, without missing a beat, looks down at you and says, “Want anything, babe?”

You squint for a second, then aggressively gesture towards the poor boy in a  _ what the fuck was that, look at this poor kid you just verbally destroyed with your garbage mouth _ sort of way. 

Bro just stares at you for a few seconds of empty silence before he makes a little soundless “o” with his mouth, then turns to the kid.

“Please.”

You smack your hand against your face and drag it down, smashing your glasses into your flesh. “Nope, I’m good.” You want to laugh, YOU REALLY DO, but you also would really like to sit down and not be cold and hungry and stared at by the entire line behind you. The kid, bless his poor young unsuspecting soul, takes down the order best he can and rings Bro up.

You’d rather not admit to how much he actually spends on his concession haul, but you know he doesn’t give a shit about ‘cost.’ It’s not something he’s remotely poor enough to worry about.

As your items come pumping out of the pick up window, Bro hands them to you, one by one, stacking them on top of the cushions and blanket.. He tells you that it’s so he can make sure it’s all there as it comes out. You tell him he’s full of shit and just doesn’t want to carry it himself. He doesn’t disagree, saying that he likes to watch you lift. He slips a ring pop into your mouth as soon as you open up to respond to that little gem. 

It’s strawberry, so you’re pretty content to just stand there and hold all your combined junk.. 

Sucking happily, something you will not say out loud ever, you follow Bro down the sidewalk that leads to the bleachers. The crowd, consisting mostly of students, teachers, and the family of said student and teachers, hustles around you to find their seats. A big group of loud, cheering, painted, half naked fans take up a good sized section of the bleachers Bro leads you towards. The Cheering Section. You find this funny, if only because you know that the two of you will no doubt be cheering along with them by the end of the night.

You walk until you reach the edge of the bleachers. You can see underneath them where you stand, just on the edge of the herd, chin barely hovering over the tips of the slurpee straws. You’ve just started to calm down and relax into what you had imagined could be a pretty romantic, fun night. Something like the two of you cuddling on the bleachers with your snacks and yelling indecencies at the field like you have any clue what is actually happening.

You’re and idiot. You don’t make it to your seats.

Bro grabs you by the scruff of your hoodie and yanks you over to the side, letting the crowd pass by. He directs you, pretty goddamn roughly, into the dark underbelly of the bleachers, a dark place where many a boy has been made into man, or girl a woman, you guess. All you really know is that Bro has you slammed up against the wall of a cement building that happens to make up the support for most of the bleachers, your arms are completely full of warm junk food, and he’s pulling the ring pop out of your mouth to slide his hot tongue between your lips to fill the empty mold left behind. 

Your knees automatically lock to support your full weight as you make a strangled grunt into the deep wet reaches of Bro’s mouth. His hands are on your hips, pressing you back and trapping you against the cold stone at your back. The crowd, barely a yard away, walks past the shadows without even a notion of what’s down here. That being two grown men making out like they’re horny teenagers and this is the only chance to suck face that has zero light and even less parental supervision. 

If you get caught, you’ll probably get kicked out. And banned, not that you ever planned on returning in the first place.

Bro leans back, a destructive grin cutting across his now pink stained mouth. He licks his lips.

“I love the strawberry ones,” he rumbles, voice unfairly sexy, all rough and husky.

“Yeah,” you pant, licking your lips. “Me too.”

Bro’s hands wander from your hips to the front of your pants, and oh shit. Oh shit he really did play you into this. 

“Hey, Johnny boy,” he purrs. The pet name sends a shiver up your spine that rattles all the way back down to your groin. You swallow. “You wanna good old fashioned under the bleachers, classic rom com inspired BJ?”

Suddenly, the crowd is very loud and very close, too noisy and alive and all around you. People line the bleachers above your heads, chatting and laughing and getting ready to settle in for the national anthem or something you’re not sure you just know there’s A LOT OF PEOPLE that could potentially CATCH YOU. 

Your face  _ burns _ with the thought of getting caught. How humiliating it could get, some stranger finding the two of you back here with your cock down Bro’s throat, hands full of sports snack contraband. Your dick practically jumps in your pants, and yeah, you’re fucking down with this.

You don’t say anything, already too horny-nervous to make noise, and just nod enthusiastically until your glasses bounce on your nose. Bro reaches up and slips them back in place, kissing the tip of your nose softly. He takes off his hat and puts it on you, sliding his glasses up into his hair. You can see his hungry expression, cheeks flushed already, and welp that’s definitely enough to get you at full mast, pressing uncomfortably against the teeth of your jeans just beyond your Slimer boxer briefs.

Your glow in the dark, Slimer boxer briefs. You’re a dead man. A horny, hungry, in love with a fucking kink machine dead man. 

You mentally check off exhibitionist on your massive list of ‘Bro Kinks.’ It's not a new tally by a long shot, more like a slash across an already existing bingo board roughly the size of Wyoming.

“I knew you’d be into this.” It’s always overwhelming, seeing his entire face. He’s obscenely handsome and he knows what his looks alone do to you without his prickling words.

“You’re the fucking worst,” You rasp whisper into the dim light as someone whoops loudly above your heads,some announcer droning away in the background. You can feel the vibrations from the stomping feet echo through your ribs.

“And you’re a kinky asshole. Kettles in stone houses, John.” 

“Not even close, but okay.”

“I’m gonna suck your dick now.”

You frown. “But you just tongue fucked that ring pop, I don’t want you getting that sticky gunk all over my dick!” You whisper-hiss into his face.

“I’m not gonna get artificial strawberry glucose on your dick John, jeez. I care about it too much for that.”

“Oh gee, THANKS.” Bro looks pleased, tossing the ring pop somewhere over his shoulder further into the guts of the metal bleachers.

He Jenga’s a bottle of water out of your arms you didn’t even know was there and takes a drink, careful to let you watch him slosh the water around. He slides it back into place. You think he may have stolen it at some point during your loading up. Meanwhile, his thumbs have hooked themselves over the waist of your jeans, sliding between the material and your skin. He swallows his drink and sticks out his tongue to prove he swallowed.

You grin. “Can’t help but swallow, huh?”   
  
His smile is crooked and mean as he pops the button on his favorite pair of your jeans.

“I love it.” He says, and you know he means it. He’s filthy, shameless, and dropping to his knees to suck you off beneath a full house. 

“Jesus, fuck- you’re already hard for me? Damn Johnny boy, who’d a’ thought you for a public sex savant?”

You groan and bump your head against the wall behind you. You can barely see him from all the shit in your arms, but you can certainly feet his hand around the base of your cock where he wasted no time at all in pulling you out, his other hand sneaking around and up your thigh to grope at one lucky cheek. 

“Omg-omg-omg just  _ shut up _ .” 

Somebody’s gonna hear him if he keeps talking like that, there’s security. Frat boys that would probably pummel you for this. You could get found out and  _ fuck _ that’s his tongue tracing the ridge of your corona. You didn’t know the technical names for the parts of your dick, but Bro sat you down and taught them all to you. Really he just wanted and excuse to both touch your dick and make a big cardboard paper cut presentation about cock, but you weren’t about to say no.

You retained most of it, and the poster-board is happy as the centerpiece in the upstairs bathroom. 

Bro must sense your mind wandering, because he wraps his lips entirely around the head and your thighs twitch. You want to squirm and cry out but your arms are full of Bro’s things and there’s a guy right there at the edge of the darkness around the two of you, right fucking there. You pull in a tight breath as he starts to slide down, working his tongue against you in a slimey rhythm, only to pull off abruptly out of fucking nowhere. The cold air circles your dick and you bite your lip to stifle a whining groan.

“What’s wrong,” he says, lips brushing against the curve of your head. He licks away the pre, tongue rough and wonderful against your sensitive slit. “Scared we’ll get caught?”

You are. You so fucking are, but that nervous fear just makes you that much harder for him.

You fight not to crush a box of popcorn in one of your hands, though you’re not really sure which at this point. Your senses are all siphoned down to the tight lips air sealed around your cock like some kind of sexy blonde freckled vacuum. 

He kneads at your ass and bobs slowly up and down your length. Each pass gets him that much closer to your base, and you’re fighting the urge to curl around him and moan. He’s pulling out his best techniques tonight, trying to get you to call out, to draw attention to the two of you.

What if someone sees you through the bleachers? You tilt your head back and pant as your legs shake with every new centimeter of Bro’s hot throat swallowing your cock. You can see shoes, occasional skin, a flash of a smile. It would be so easy for someone to just drop something, maybe look down for just one second. 

You moan before you can stop yourself, heat blazing through your entire body. Shame, hot and scalding mixing with the familiar building pressure in your gut. You try to thrust into his mouth on instinct, hips jerking forward to drive deeper into that tight, wet heat. You can feel him accepting it, feel the lax stretch of his jaw as his nose bumps your tummy. 

He moans with you, a sound you barely hear over the surrounding crowd but you feel every tiny note. Bro can play just about any instrument that comes his way, you included. When he starts to pull you forward by the grip on your hips, down into his throat, forcing you to pick up your pace, you turn into your hoodie and bite down on the soft material, arching your hips into this quick rhythm.

He’s ruthless, conducting you into facefucking him while you can’t even touch him or see him.

All you can do is feel him suck and swallow and lick and  _ suck and oh god _

“Close,” you grit out between your teeth. It comes out louder than you wanted, and the instant regret and worry collide with that tight wire vibrating along your spine, wicked hot. Your thighs are shaking in his grip, ‘o’ face at the ready. 

There is not a damn thing about this that is classic or old fashioned. 

Bro pops off your cock and wraps his finger-less gloved hand around it, pumping steadily, but just  _ just not enough and god he’s honest to fucking god going to edge you right now??? You’ll DIE. _

You’re suddenly very aware, just beyond the pounding of your own heartbeat, that the crowd has quieted down to hear the announcer.

_ Fuck. _

“What John, I didn’t catch that?” His voice is wrecked, and you wish you could just see him, because you know he’s looking up at you when he says it and not quietly. He tightens his hand on a cruel pump and you thrust against him. You’re sweating like a whore in church, and honestly the phrase isn’t that far off if you really stop to think about it. “You want to finish, right?” 

Yes, yes you do.

“Fuck- yes. Just- fuck someone’s gonna hear.”

“You’d like that though, wouldn’t you?” He’s really going to pull into dirty talk right now holy fucking shit.

“Bro,” You try.

“Say it, John.” He’s getting louder, voice recovering somewhat from his round of deep throating your dick. Someone starts singing over the mic. 

“ _ Dirk _ .” You try again.

“ _ Say it. _ ”

“Fuck, YES.  _ YES I WANT TO CO- _ ” you blurt out, but are cut short when he dives back down onto your cock and  _ sucks _ . 

You come hard, held up by nothing but his hands pinning you to the wall by your hips as you shake and thrust through it. You hum that last syllable, drawing it out on a satisfying groan. Your toes are tingly from the force of curling them inside your shoes, sweat beading across your forehead. You’re thankful for the cool air by this point. You’d be trembling if your hands weren’t still full. You absolutely decimated one of those boxes of popcorn in your palm. 

You’d barely noticed Bro letting you slide out of his mouth, but he brings you back to Earth when he starts lapping at your softening dick, cleaning it before he tucks it lovingly back into your underwear. When he pops back up into your line of sight, still pretty much holding you up, he’s red faced, glassy eyed, and looking just about as happy as he ever does. His lips are pink and swollen around his genuine grin, eyes a fiery gold heat in the low lights. 

You lean in and lick away his tears without really thinking about it, just a poor way to reciprocate down here in the dark with your arms too busy to hold him. Bro snorts, but he leans closer anyway, letting you kiss and lick his face clean of salty moisture. When he leans back again, his lashes are still thickly clumped together, which is a pretty look on him. He smiles in a way that reaches his eyes and buttons up your jeans again. You’re one poor sunk bastard.

Bro takes a big drink of his orange freezie and swishes it around his mouth for a second before kissing you, and you share another sweet treat with him and his tongue. It’s sweeter than you usually like, and you can still taste yourself on him, but it’s so good nonetheless.

The crowd is cheering, players being announced onto the field. Nobody found you, and you’ve still got the whole game to sit through. Bro is probably hard as a fucking rock right about now.

“Do we need to uh… should I?” You ask, sort of still out of your mind.

He laughs and slides his glasses back down onto his nose. The hat, he leaves on you, which does not make you stupidly happy in any way.

“After the game. Let’s get you and your load to a seat.”

“You totally mean you as my load, don’t you.”

“Yeah, what else would I mean?”

Bro helps you off the wall and you make your way through the crowd and up the bleachers. You sit almost directly above where you had just been give a mind blowing BJ. Heat floods up your neck and face again and you fucking know he did it on purpose. He just sits down, grabbing some of the junk food and smiling. Yeah, he knows you know. 

“Do you think anyone…”

“Nah,” he says around a bite of luke warm hotdog. “Probably.”

You groan and throw your head back. He’s really not comforting. That embarrassed heat hums along you skin and okay if you start thinking about it again you’re going to get hard stop.

Bro gives you a quick little peck on the cheek that leaves pieces of bun stuck to you scruff. You brush it away as he smiles that tiny closed mouth smile and says, “You’re cute.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Stupid in love with you.” He says in a sing song voice, going back to finish his hotdog and moving on to the un-smashed box of popcorn. The other you just sort of left down there. You’re still trying to get butter out of the creases of you palm. That kid didn’t mess around.

“Ew,” you giggle, and he’s happy. You’re certainly fucking happy. You hold hands for most of the night while Bro hums that stupid Bleachers song under his breath that you know inspired him for tonight. It's a catchy song, and you sing along with him.  


The rest of the game goes on the way you’d thought it would. Cheering for a team you know nothing about, a lot of yelling, particularly Bro, and too much junky concession food. At one point you did in fact join the cheering section, and Bro used his genius computer brain to memorize the cheers and replace them with his own lyrics. 

Turns out you got kicked out for being horny on main after all. 

If you gave Bro the honor of your first ever act of Road Head as a thank you on the way home, who’d to know. He didn’t even have to ask. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, you can stay up in the stands  
And I'll be under the bleachers  
B-L-E-A-C-H-E-R-S


End file.
